


A State of Decay

by Emriel



Series: Taken [27]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Prostitution, References to Depression, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, prisoner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21716368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emriel/pseuds/Emriel
Summary: The body was an instrument once you’ve learned how to play it but Harry Potter was already dead inside even if his body responds like any body would. Voldemort was still perplexed at the concept of love, and what it meant for his horcrux. For him, cursed to not feel it at all, it was incredibly complex of an emotion. He wonders endlessly how his horcrux can love another.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: Taken [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/965817
Comments: 6
Kudos: 150





	A State of Decay

To breathe required many things. The air would go through the nose or the mouth. Then, the air would be distributed within the body through the lungs, through the heart, through blood. And all this was known to be connected to the brain, so if a brain stops, then so does the rest of the bodily functions.

Muggles, Harry thought, were amazing in their own way to have thought of how things worked and have completely evolved in a different way in comparison to wizards who still relied on concoctions and spells.

There were ways to cut off someone’s breathing, but instant death with the Avada Kedavra. Something that would immediately kill someone was something else entirely.

And then they could also choke to death. From water. From ash. From many things.

Human lives, especially muggle ones… were truly fragile.

He stood atop a mountain, a rocky outcrop and beside him there was the banner of the dark mark, held up by a human slave. Behind him, the inner circle was conversing. Something about which town they should pay a visit to.

They were looking down at the rebels who were currently being eaten alive by the swiftly rising sea level.

On his hand was the elder wand, the culprit.

Beside him, Tom was smiling, as if satisfied.

“My… Lord,” it was like sandpaper on Harry’s tongue, as if by saying those words and acknowledging the man he currently served the same way death eaters did was offensive enough to turn his nose up. But he showed none of that distaste and instead, his voice was that of a soft, subservient obedient follower.

“Yes, Harry.” Tom’s velvety gaze settled on him and the man moved closer, settling spindly hands on his shoulder. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

Harry’s hands betrayed his mood and it tightened around the elder wand before he could stop himself. While he knew occlumency, he was not yet trained to prevent his body from responding to his ire. Instead, he bowed his head and Tom put a hand to tilt his chin upwards.

‘He’s going to read my mind.’

And before this could happen, Harry moved a step backwards.

He then purposely looked away and gasped when his heart suddenly sped up, the Dark Lord having activated a curse of the collar that hung around his neck.

A small band of gold that induced exhaustion among other things. His heart responded, and in mere seconds, Harry was brought down to his knees.

“You do not. Look away from me, Harry. Remember that.”

And Harry nodded as Tom pointed his wand at him.

And Harry rasped, “I’ve done as you asked… I cast the spell… what more do you want?” His voice quiet against the screams of the rebels.

And behind them, the inner circle hushed themselves and watched the spectacle.

Lord Voldemort frowned and spoke, “Crucio.”

And then there was pain.

“Silencio.”

A silent kind of excruciating pain. Harry knew he should be used to this by now, for he was simply a plaything.

* * *

When he awoke, he was back to his special little room.

Just a plain white chamber that reminded him of the muggle hospital. There, he was alone with most of his thoughts and it was almost impossible to hear anything when he started hearing the voices.

He could not exactly remember how it happened now. Upon becoming the Master of Death, the horcrux within him survived and eventually took over… One moment he was on his way to destroy the other horcruxes, the next thing he knew, he turned traitor, killed his friends and was serving the Dark Lord.

Harry smiled wryly, looking out at the golden sunlight that came running along the walls of his prison. They killed Hedwig and he found himself introduced a crow as his new familiar, saying that it suited a necromancer compared to a fluffy white owl.

And he scoffed at the thought that the wizards who have not seen a necromancer in decades can understand what it’s like to be one. Nevertheless, he held out an arm and the crow landed on it.

Harry affectionately gave its head a rub, silently communicating that his grievances for his former familiar was not in any fault of his new one, who he aptly named Hades.

And Hades was if anything polite.

Sometimes, Harry would talk to Hades in serpent tongue, and for some reason the bird responded more eagerly when he did so.

* * *

He languished in bed for hours, wondering what he’d done to displease the Dark Lord again. The corners of his mouth were pulled down, as he dangled a piece of croissant atop his mouth, biting off it lazily, uncaring that the crumbs were falling all over the bed. Someone would come to clean it. Harry learned early on that nothing he did truly mattered, in the greater picture.

Tom only cared for him because he was a horcrux, and he could be used because of his status as the Master of Death.

But even the Master of Death cannot break the chains of slavery and multiple servitude bonds. With his body tied to the monster, it wasn’t as if his small acts of rebellion could amount to anything. With someone so wicked in power, it would be easy for Voldemort to command others to do his bidding.

Especially now that he had his sanity in tact.

The door opened, and in came a familiar figure. Draco Malfoy, now a big wig, with his pompous face scarred by muggle poison, and his father killed by a rebel, he had the unfortunate experience of having to take over the Malfoy Estates and time hadn’t been kind to him.

His friend. Not friend.

Draco stole the croissant away from him and ate it.

Then leaned over him, bright grey eyes staring down at him and panting as if he’d come to great lengths just to be there, and press his chest down his chest.

And have his lips catch his.

“Butter.”

Harry twisted his face to the side, and mumbled, “You taste like butter.”

Draco just looked at him annoyed, “Is that all you have to say, Potter?”

Harry laughed bitterly, “So it’s back to Potter now. You’ve had your kiss, now can you leave me alone?”

Harry inched away towards the end of the queen sized bed. A house elf popped up and asked, “Does Master Harry need more food?”

And Harry merely had to shake his head, tired of speaking and refusing to address the other male who was sitting, increasingly annoyed on his bed.

“Are you here to fuck me? Is that all Draco?”

Harry asked while looking out of the window, while on the corner of his eye, watching Hades peck on a bowl of wriggling worms.

“Harry, you know that’s not what I’m here for. I heard… what happened at Cross Fell, and I wanted to see how you’re doing. I’ve been worried that you—”

Harry turned his head giving Draco a glare. Draco looked like a thirty year old man now, with a slightly receding hairline and that scar that marred his nose and eye. Some women found it unbearably handsome. And that he grew his hair again, that part of his hair covered it, as if ashamed by it. And just like Lucius, he was so. Cold.

‘Insensitive bastard,’ Harry thought silently to himself. Then he sighed, “What he does to me is none of your concern. Just because you’re one of the few that he allows to use my body does not mean we’re automatically… close now. You shouldn’t be concerned about me.”

“Well, I care for you. I… despite everything and even if you don’t remember it, you saved my life once. We were rivals once and seeing you in this state, it’s… never mind. Are you alright?”

Harry tilted his head. “Yes.”

Harry knew that his body was attractive. The Dark Lord liked to take care of him, and part of that was to keep his body looking like a male whore if he wished for one. Kept in his seventeen year old form for all eternity, he was simply like a doll.

A nice little doll to share with the Dark Lord’s most trusted.

He could not even remember if his first had been a man or a woman. He used to believe that before at least losing his mind to the Dark Lord he’d have successfully lost his virginity to someone else.

And losing it to Voldemort who liked to gloat that he’s just a wanton whore that spreads his legs at the first instance of pleasure was utterly horrid. And he remembered the countless nights that he was in denial, and something in him splintered, and just broke. Who would not, cursed with an aphrodisiac and a love potion to boot.

Eventually, that fake love of his grew tiresome as well. And whatever residual feelings of love he held for Tom just went away.

* * *

Harry found himself sitting the opposite way of his with his chin on the backrest, rocking the chair with two of its feet and listening to Draco who was now drinking wine and regurgitating all the woes he had with the current empire, “It’s not as if I wanted this job, or this position. It was handed out to me, and I have a mother to protect.”

Harry just tuned this out, wondering when Draco would disappear.

“Oh, purebloods are the nastiest nowadays because they demand so many things but the country has yet to stabilize after Wizengamot got abolished… Those goblins were pretty good at handling money, and the half bloods we replaced them with, they do not know how to run the system of runes and spells. Sadly, we have to rely on muggle counterparts and bewitch them to work there instead.”

“So you’re turning to muggle slavery?”

“We. You’re part of this empire too.”

“And it’s not as if they aren’t paid their muggle wages. And while I’ve taken the blame, the Dark Lord has arranged for a scapegoat should the rest of _them_ complain.”

Harry licked his lips and approached the bed.

“So do I listen to you complain all afternoon? You have some nerve, when I’m the one of the victims here.”

Draco looked at him, and sighed. “Shouldn’t you be more grateful…? Our Lord spared you, and he gave you your own chamber in his castle. Anyone else would kill to have the same position.”

Harry laughed at this, knowing it was an empty accusation that Draco didn’t even believe. He was only saying it out of habit.

And without a word, Harry took the pillow and swung it with all his strength at the unsuspecting blonde.

“What in Slytherin’s name are you doing Potter?”

Harry rolled his eyes, “What, have you never had a pillow fight in your life?”

And at this Harry swung the pillow once more.

* * *

The bed was a mess, with feathers from the pillows. A pillow fight one moment, but soonthey were wrestling over each other that hadHarry taunting Draco that he would never hurt him because the Dark Lord would have his head.

And Harry spreading his legs and just telling Draco to “Get over it.” because in all honesty, he was bored of offering comfort to someone who was only there to rant.

Harry knew that there was a certain power to this allure that he had. Why, he had such a dashing mentor, who said that, “many people flock to power like ours. It could be your beauty, your strength of character, your purity. They desire it, they want it, and when you cannot give it to them, the more they cherish it.”

Or put it simply, most people wanted things that aren’t theirs.

Harry scoffed at those words once, wondering why most people he met in life could not be told off with a polite no, and he ended up resorting to more hurtful means because other people have mad illusions.

* * *

He washed himself off, a lovely bath that had steam filling the air. After drying himself, he watched Draco with an empty expression as the man hogged his pillow to himself.

Aside from being a prisoner, he was studying a great many books, scrolls, and scriptures. Tom Marvolo Riddle likened them to gifts but Harry likened them to punishment.

With nothing but emptiness in his haven, he began studying them, out of boredom.

And just like that, he spent his time in silence, the window’s view of the sun slowly turning into the inky black night sky, with a lot of stars, the moon, then eventually the blue sky.

The door to his chambers opened, and Harry had his face propped against the table, with drool spilling out of his mouth.

Red eyes were staring down at him.

Harry looked at the trashed state of the room, at Draco, at the Dark Lord and yawned.

“My Lord?” Harry asked, with tears in his eyes, resisting the urge to yawn again.

He could not recall what time he slept. And Voldemort simply frowned at him or perhaps his audacity.

His mind had yet to catch up to his behavior.

A hand was on his forehead, and Harry let him.

Then, he was manhandled towards the Dark Lord’s arms. He had no doubt that Draco would be punished again, in one way or another. While The Dark Lord allowed others to fuck him, it did not mean that they could not without good reason or permission.

Not his fault.

It was just one of the man’s convoluted traps. The only reason Draco was alive was because Harry knew and confessed he’d be upset if his only friend in the empire were to die.

* * *

Harry always felt small when confronted by Voldemort’s towering height. And on his bed sitting with nothing but his bathrobe on, he might as well just be naked.

But after having spent one too many nights on the same bed, and on every inch of the older man’s property, it was almost disturbing to still feel any hint of shyness.

So Harry wrapped his knees with his arms, utterly uncaring that he was literally exposing himself to Voldemort and utterly unfazed despite his rather gorgeous looks, wearing Tom Riddle’s face instead of his scaly one... 

If the Dark Lord decided that he should be tortured, then he will be tortured. If the Dark Lord desired his body then he would have his body.

And everything else ran along the same lines.

What little comfort he had was the ‘softer than his’ plush sheets that he’d rather smother his face in. The little things.

And Voldemort was as dark as they could get. There was some point he just stopped believing he could turn the older man into a better person. He tried, and then he learned that he should just give up because he was tired.

So tired.

That not even his tears mattered any more.

But that didn’t mean he stopped feeling, or his tears stopped. He just got more lost in moments, drifting off without ever realizing it happened, and by then the Dark Lord was horribly upset with him or would have lost interest.

He learned that in those moments where he felt sad he could just pretend he was somewhere else safe.

It helped.

“I asked you to perform the Avada Kedavra… and amplify it. Why did you choose the _Tempestas Mariz_ spell instead? _”_

Harry looked down, “all you wanted was for them to die. So the easier way was to drown them.”

“Fool.”

The Dark Lord glowered, “Don’t think you can pretend in front of me. You knew that many can survive the flood, but not many can survive the Avada Kedavra.”

Harry grinned, “I did. And my mother sacrificed herself for it. How many people do you think would sacrifice themselves for other people if I cast that spell in that magnitude?”

Voldemort blinked, “Child, you know it does not work that way.”

Harry lowered his eyes, “I know. The truth… is that, I don’t like that curse. I’ve used it many times in front of you. You like it too much but all it does is take their lives away and it’s done. There was a time that you used to like theatrics. I thought drowning them was a better show than casting a green light. Both of them would have made you happy. I’m sorry for being wrong, My Lord.”

And Voldemort held out his hand, pulling it upwards until Harry found himself choking.

“Detestable. Your play with words… you think you can twist facts when I know the truth.”

And for the first time in months, Harry got mad.

“If you know what I’m thinking then why the fuck are you pretending My Lord? If you can read all that’s in my head, then why do we still have to play this game of yours. I’m tired. So… tired.”

And Harry just shut down.

Telling himself that he didn’t care what happened to himself afterwards. Another escapade with the dementors? Fine. Getting mind raped? Fine. Getting his skin flayed? Fine. Getting raped by a hundred men? Fine.

‘I don’t have a choice.’

And started laughing and crying.

At this Voldemort looked troubled.

“You…”

“And whose fault is that?” Harry smiled wryly, “Who do you want me to be? What do you want me to be? Am I a toy, your whore? Just a horcrux? Some random decoration? Or am I really your treasured companion? You seem to switch from one thing to another, and I’m tired of having to read your mood. Just kill me already.”

Harry pushed himself up, and retreated to the pillows.

“At least your bed is soft,” Harry said, having lost the ire, just laying there. As if he owned it.

* * *

And Voldemort grew quiet. He stared at the horcrux he tortured, trained, and cherished.

His downfall, his glory, and perhaps undoing.

They were constantly running circles around each other, neither quite ready to give up. Harry would probably never gave up on his ideals, that inside that boy’s rather fragile mind and heart, there was that same boy, unbroken.

It was something to be respected.

His men held the boy in high regard for his magical prowess of being the necromancer. Such a sweet flower, who he had to treat so roughly just so his enemies would never doubt his lack of attachment.

Emotions were a horrid thing. He knew what it was like to be without them, and to be with them again brought constant trouble for he was irrational without it, and with it, he was bereft of common sense.

In truth, it would be easier to lock the boy in a crystal coffin, preserve his life and be gone with him. And yet, Harry Potter continued to live on.

The thought of having to share Harry Potter to a mere pawn crossed his mind, and yet he knew that it was necessary, for the sake of his sanity and Harry’s.

So instead, he activated the curse. It was easier to take his frustration out on the boy than take it out on someone he cared for.

Hedwig’s death took a toll on the boy’s psyche, reducing him to a suicidal thing.

He watched the boy’s labored breathing as the ability to breathe was taken away from him. Until he was gasping for air.

Again. And again.

Until the body was exhausted.

The next came the mind, this exhausted, it was easy to see what the boy was thinking of. ‘Muggles, and their discovery of medicine, and science. Draco’s cooperation with muggles. Filthy sex.’

It seemed the boy was harboring some interest and wished to preserve muggles and still thought societies might integrate one day. Voldemort frowned at the thought of vermin coexisting with them readily but knew their numbers were currently too small to address the problem.

And the thought of the Malfoy brat intertwined with the boy made him frown.

‘ _Muggles readily doing better jobs than their Magical counterparts. At least in terms of management…’_

Harry winced and struggled while Voldemort asked, “Why do you still persist on protecting them when all they’ve done was hurt you in the past.”

_‘But… we breathe the same air. We look the same. We’re just as human as they think they are human. We’re not that different…’_

Voldemort knew this to be true, and yet fundamentally he knew that as a prisoner, Harry truly had no say. The boy was gasping, and crying now. At the pain.

His head. His heart.

He wished he could stab it multiple times.

‘ _Do you still love me, Harry?_ ’

The effects of a love potion can wear off, but the memories would not, unless he erased them.

And to this, Harry nodded his head weakly.

Voldemort was still perplexed at the concept of love, and what it meant for his horcrux. For him, cursed to not feel it at all, it was incredibly complex of an emotion.

And it was not as if he was tired of the boy’s body at all, in fact, it would be very easy to see the boy cry out now that he was in such a state. So with his wand, he made the boy’s anus wider, parting the boy’s bathrobe.

It was easy for Harry to forget he belonged to him in many ways.

He wondered if the boy remembered to at least clean himself properly.

So, without much care, he transfigured a rag and stuffed it on the boy’s mouth. Casting a specialized scourgify charm on his rectum, he made sure it was clean to the point of hurting, and he had the boy crying out.

The body was an instrument once you’ve learned how to play it, it was easy to make him gasp and moan. And with the boy unable to move, he could only now breathe through his nose. Still breathing heavily.

The Master of Death would not die, but as precautions, he tethered the boy to him, in ways where when he was going too far, he could always stop.

He had the boy singing when he began casting a spell that would keep him sensitive. A hand around the boy’s sex and soon he was crying.

After an almost clinical orgasm, that had the boy’s toes curling inwards into themselves, he reached out for a salve, one of Severus Snape’s concoctions that would render the victim childish and a little more honest. A prolonged version of the veritaserum.

Harry saw this and started shaking his head. Voldemort smirked and put the potion in his mouth, removing the boy’s gag and making the boy swallow.

“Why… no… you promised… not to… ah”

“Only when you behaved and you’ve done nothing but disrespect me lately.”

Tom looked at the state of his beloved, and let up on the curse.

And Harry simply cried and looked at him with need, the eyes dilating, a sure sign that it was working. It usually lasted for weeks, during the course of which he preferred having the boy in his chambers. And at this, Voldemort licked the boy’s lips, kissing his forehead and pressing down on him.

“...I- Don’t know… what I’m doing wrong… why do you always hurt me? Master?”

Voldemort ignored the hurt accusation and merely replied, “This hurt is all your doing unto yourself. We had a deal that you would obey me, and yet you continue to test my ire.”

Harry looked away at this, “you… were never fair.”

“That is because you lost to me, Harry.” Tom brushed the boy’s tears away, and with a wave of a hand, the room was plunged into darkness.

Out of all Harry’s fears, perhaps none was more magnified than the loss of sensation, and partly to this, was the loss of sight. The momentary blindness had the boy clinging to him.

He knew it would be easy to coax the boy to love him, the right way. To win his affections, and take care of him, but he did not want the boy to think he would change who he was just for the sake of something as silly as love.

Fear was as good as any emotion, and Harry was right to accuse him of toying with him. It was very easy, after all. It was one curse after the other, and soon the boy lost all sense of hearing.

Lost sense of smell.

And now only touch remained.

* * *

When it was all over, the boy had cried himself a rivulet of tears. The boy’s ass was a lovely spatter of his seed, and Voldemort was increasingly satisfied that he could still bring terror to his lovely horcrux who begged multiple times until his words turned into gibberish.

And he had the fireplace roar. He carried his horcrux to it, and Harry curled into a ball, trying to make himself so small, to wish himself to disappear.

Tom just put his hand on top of the boy’s head, calmly carding his hands through it. Little by little.

“D-do… you… hate… me?”

It was a question Voldemort had been asked many times ago, and many times he answered yes. But lately…

“No, not at all. For if I truly hated you, you would be suffering worse than this.”

Voldemort kissed the boy’s forehead.

“I hurt you needlessly all the time. Does this make you hate me?”

And Harry, under the influence of the potion could only answer the truth.

“I don’t know… I hate that you hurt me… but I don’t… hate you.”

Voldemort’s hands tightened on the boy’s hair.

“Perhaps, I should keep you this way. Your honesty is something I desire… Why did you stop speaking your mind to me?”

Harry opened his green eyes to stare at the Dark Lord’s red ones.

“Because whatever I did… doesn’t matter? You don’t… care.”

Harry watched Voldemort frown.

“Since when?”

At this, there was a blank stare.

“I don’t know.”

Voldemort touched the collar, and forced his magic into it, and the boy gasped and lost consciousness.

* * *

Harry crawled out of bed, and tripped when he realized he was not in his usual room. He felt like screaming when he could not recognize his surroundings.

But then calmed down when memories of the Dark Lord returned.

He tried to tell himself he was going to be okay, even with the effects of the potion running in his veins. Voldemort possibly needed his company.

And it meant he was in no state to even deny it, not one bit.

Here he was, a grown man, crawling out of the bed, on the floor, simply because he was too afraid of the world and needed the same exact person who put him into that state to put him back together.

By the time he crawled in the middle of the room by the fireplace he started crying and all he really wanted was to eat something, but the mere thought of calling out for help never occurred to him.

Voldemort appeared much later, when he left tear-stains on the carpet and gave up on moving entirely.

Outside, all the birds were dead.

“Harry…”

And Harry started puking on the floor.

That he cried too much and now his body could not take the strain so it began puking instead.

* * *

The healers came after, and Harry started reaching for the Dark Lord, “Don’t… don’t leave me.”

It was always the same chant. It was as if the boy was terrified he’d be abandoned. And that’s how it usually went, because many a time he simply abandoned Harry to the mercy of the medi wizards.

To the boy, there were too many voices speaking all at the same time. They asked him too many impersonal questions when he wasn’t even prepared to answer them.

To Voldemort he was merely interested in how the boy would act after this recent experience.

In truth, he desired the boy’s companionship, and some form of cooperation but since he reduced Harry to such a state, he had neither.

Granted, it was a passive desire. He could achieve things on his own, but it was more worthwhile when his soul would simply give in to him.

And there was plenty of fear and pain to use.

* * *

After the healers had their way with the child, making sure that they treated him of all the things that went wrong with his body, Severus pulled him aside, informing him quite frankly, “If this goes on, I’m afraid his mind will eventually become irreparable, my Lord.”

And then, that was when Voldemort realized that there was a limit to how many times he could play with his favorite toy and how many times he could fix it.

And Harry just lay on the bed again, utterly unmoving, looking out the window.

Gently, he took the boy’s hand.

“Mas-ter?”

The boy’s voice was softer now, as if using his vocal chords hurt him. Voldemort decided then, to lock the boy up.

“Please… stay?”

Harry held out his weak hand, and Lord Voldemort lay beside him.

Harry closed his eyes and said, “Thank you.”

* * *

In the end, he kept the boy in his garden. Harry Potter refused to talk to him for months after the incident. Just a small act of rebellion that he allowed. He was benevolent when he felt like it.

Voldemort soon found out that many have begun to surround his flower like happy little bees. 

Draco Malfoy was one. Then, there was Cedric Diggory, the boy’s first reanimated servant. If it was not for Harry’s argument that through their connection, Cedric would also remain loyal to both himself and Harry, he would not have agreed. Severus Snape was also especially protective of the ‘brat’ while some of his inner circle started growing fond of the green eyed menace.

The brat was winning them one by one. Someone even remarked that keeping Harry Potter happy indirectly contributed to his mood. He had yet to test out that theory.

Hades began pecking at him but the boy’s mental state was constantly at the tipping point, it did not do well for him to roast the bird. The only way to reverse the damage was to revert the boy to a mere baby and start from there and Voldemort had no interest in taking care of such a burden.

Voldemort knew that Harry Potter was truly gone when the boy began delving into dark magic, and after learning that the only way to improve his situation was to sacrifice some of his ideals, the boy became his reluctant pupil. If he wasn’t already one.

He easily surpassed Bellatrix, and had the added benefit of being the Master of Death and his horcrux.

In return, he allowed the boy to convince him with some of his more radical ideas. It was not the perfect romance, and often times it had him thinking it was better if he just abandoned his horcrux and forgot about him altogether.

And yet here they were.

Was it love?

The Dark Lord begged to differ.

**Author's Note:**

> When writing I always lose track of time... I'll probably revisit this one day. I have mixed feelings with this.


End file.
